Sunday February 3rd - Doon the Watter *

D is woken at around 5 a.m. by somebody riding a motorcycle along the deck outside our cabin. Looking out of the window he can see that it is dark and we are near some large habitation. The motorbike is in fact a very noisy motor launch. The map app shows us to be at Barisal, home of the Barisal Bulls cricket team. We will not be visiting the home of the Chittagong Vikings on this trip. There is enough noise to wake the dead but R sleeps on regardless behind the protection of her ear plugs.

The Mahsud sets out from Barisal at 6.30, just as it is getting light. On deck it is quite chilly and the fleece sweater is deployed for the first time since arriving at Glasgow Airport. It is very misty and a few miles down river there is a frenzy of activity as the paddles are suddenly switched into reverse and the anchor dropped. Presumably the skipper can't see more than 50 feet ahead either. The Rocket Boats have a reputation for safe operating unlike some in Bangladesh.

After twenty minutes or so the mist starts to clear and the journey resumes. It soon becomes clear why the captain is being cautious. There are quite a few large vessels heading in both directions along the waterway, not to mention numerous small craft. We try to find somebody who can provide cups of tea, but the staff have gone into hiding. Do not believe Lonely Planet, which rattles on about enjoying cups of tea on the foredeck and don't believe anybody who tells you that beer is available on board. We sit outside our cabin and watch the world. The scenery is rather more tropical here than the other places we have been.

Breakfast has been promised for 08.30 several times and eventually appears at 9 a.m. Fairly basic but adequate. We share the table with a Japanese man who has a pomegranate and offers us a piece each, very tasty. His English vocabulary appears to run to tea and coffee. After breakfast we pack and sit looking out over the rail. We discover that Japanese man also knows 'candy'. Not proper English but we know what he means. He hands out small pink packets that turn out to contain strawberry flavoured chewing gum. Yuk!

Disembarkation at Hularhat is somewhat disorganised but we do get off the boat complete with bags. D has done his research and we know to engage an Ezybike for the 15 minute trip to the bus stand. He delivers us right to the bus that we need. We pay 100 Takas each for our tickets to Khulna, about two hours drive away. For reasons that are not made clear at any stage they will not put our luggage on the roof. This means that we have to take our bags onto the bus with us. The ticket man indicates which seats we should occupy and the row behind has no seat base, just an open framework, so we assume that our bags are to go there. This provokes outrage from the ticket man so D produces another 200 to pay for two more seats. That doesn't satisfy him and we pick the bags up which allows him to fit a seat base conjured up from somewhere. He then indicates that we can put our bags on the seats and gives us two more tickets.

The bus fills up quickly and we set off, picking up more passengers on the way out of town. Very much standing room only. Many people seem to wait until the bus starts moving before attempting to board. Our driver must have been promoted from the ranks of CNG pilots in recognition of bad behaviour. Foot hard down, horn blaring we roar across the countryside, stopping occasionally for more passengers. At a town with the implausible name of Signpost Bazaar we stop for fuel and the bus is suddenly surrounded by hawkers, a couple of them selling yet another unknown fruit. Answers on a Comment below please.

D has the window seat and sees a man board with a carrier bag, out of which protrudes the head and neck of a live duck. Every so often there is a stretch of a mile or so where the road surface has been ripped up and the bus has to negotiate the dust and fits of the foundation. D soon learns to close the window for these sections. Somehow the man with the duck has worked his way through the crowd in the aisle to be standing next to us. When he sees us looking he holds the poor creature up for a photo op. It is a remarkably placid creature but we have no idea if it is a pet or supper.

After two hours that have swung R firmly in favour of train travel we arrive in Khulna. The bus stand appears to double up as the municipal tip and we grab the first Ezybike operative we can find. While we are boarding his machine a colleague/rival takes exception to something and a short bout of fisticuffs ensues. Perhaps the row is about him overcharging us. He even has the gall to ask for a tip. The Tiger Park International Hotel is a bit more upmarket than we anticipated , although like everywhere else except Hotel 71, we have to ask for a second bath towel. We have been married for nearly 39 years but there are some things that one just does not share.

After a short rest to recover from the bus ride we go out to explore. First job is to locate the railway station so we know where we need to go tomorrow night. Having done that we flag a rickshaw for a ride to the New Market. The rickshaw looks like a battered old thing but has been fitted with an electric motor and fairly whizzed along. Outside the market we are ambushed by some marketing girls who want us to stand in front of a big screen TV and dance while being filmed. That'll be right. We grimace for a photo shot and give them a fake phone number. They try to give us a pot mug that holds about a quart. Just what we need in our overstretched luggage.

Inside the New Market building there is an air of cloistered calm. No motorbikes or rickshaws, no hustlers, just two concentric squares of nicely presented shops with a small garden centre in the middle. We stroll at leisure, exchanging greetings with merchants, all the while looking for the sort of cotton scarf that rickshaw drivers wear. We may have come to the wrong market as there doesn't seem to be anything quite so common available.

We spot that there is an upper level of shops within the perimeter wall and try our luck. One place looks to have them in the front window. As we peer a member of staff comes to help. D asks about the scarves and is told that they are towels. Still they look the part and at 80 Takas the risk is low. We even get a very smart bag with it. Having thus boosted the local economy we decide that a cup of tea is in order. There are some quite respectable looking places around the garden centre but none of them supply cups of tea, only coffee.

We head out of the market, still in search of refreshment and happen upon a chap selling coconuts off a cart. R has been promised one earlier in the trip and now she wants to cash in. With the aid of a straw we drink the juice and then use our sporks to eat the delicious flesh. The vendor is unimpressed with our new fangled ideas. He prefers to eat his coconut off a machete. 

Our restaurant of choice tonight is The Grill House, a Lonely Planet recommendation, which we have difficulty finding as it is shown in the wrong place on their map. A man tries to put us right but D suspects him of nefarious intent. When we consult the online map we find that he was taking us the right way. D does get chance to apologise for doubting him. Back at the hotel we ask about a late checkout for tomorrow. At first it appears not possible but then a way is found. We will have to vacate our current room but our bags will be transferred to another which we can use until we need to go for the train.

* Doon the Watter